Sins of the Father (22 page)

Watching them, Kael wondered if he would ever be as good as they were—or even if he wanted to be.

Chapter Twelve

Arkadiy Romodanovsky.

Kael typed the name into Google and hit Enter. He had waited until Angel left for college, not wanting the boy looking over his shoulder and questioning him, as he often did when Kael used the computer.
What are you doing, Daddy? Why do you want to know that? Who is that in the picture
? His boy was infinitely interested in everything he did. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever get used to living with Angel, though he could not imagine ever again living without him. An involuntary smile crossed his face as he remembered Angel kissing him good-bye at the lift that morning.

“Don’t forget, Daddy, Italian week means Italian food. I’m going to cook”
—he’d paused for effect—
“cannelloni!”

Every week Kael made Angel speak another language for a couple of hours in the evenings to reinforce what he was teaching him. French one week, Italian the next, German the next, and then Russian. He had kept it at four, deciding it was enough. As the lift doors closed, Angel had given him an exaggerated wink with his mouth wide open before wiggling his hips and saying,
“Italian food and Latin loooove.”

Nobody made him smile like Angel. Nobody had made him smile at all before Angel.

Wikipedia was the first hit. The entry was short but typical. Arkadiy Alexsandr Viktor Romodanovsky, Russian minister of justice. Born April 20, 1948, in Switzerland. Wife Maria, five sons. After that came a list of his career accomplishments. There was no picture.

Going back to the original search, Kael clicked on another couple of links but found very little of interest. Romodanovsky had grown up rich and privileged in Switzerland, had a degree in law, had had a career in diplomacy, and was now in politics. He lived full-time in Moscow and owned a large dacha on the Moskva River in the countryside outside the city.

Rising, Kael began to pace. Between Shawn and this man, he was confused and angry. He wanted to kill them both and for largely the same reason: for putting their filthy hands on people who did not want it. But what had Conran said to him in the garden at Dorneywood?
“You raped me.”
It was true; he had. Was it possible he was Romodanovsky’s biological son? Even Angel said he looked like the man. His mum must know who his father was.

With his mobile, he dialed her number. For safety reasons, he never programmed numbers into the throwaway mobiles he bought. With his excellent memory, he didn’t need to.

“Hello?”

“Mum, it’s me.”

“Hello, son. How are you?” The tiredness in her voice tore at his heart. He couldn’t do it so fast on the heels of Shawn. He could not ask her to go back to that place that had made her sob for hours when he was twelve years old.

“I’m okay. I was wondering about you. Has Shawn phoned you?”

A long sigh followed his question. “Yes, he phoned. I told him he was a pedo, and I hung up on him.”

What could he do to ease her pain and appease some of his own guilt? “As soon as I get a chance, we’ll go away for a week, the three of us. Would you like that, Mum? What about Angel’s half term?”

“That would be nice, luv. Anyway I’d better go. I’m due at the flower shop in half an hour.”

“Have a good day, and don’t think about Shawn.”

“That’s a tall order.” She gave a little laugh. “Kael?” Her tone took on a sudden urgency. “Did he ever hurt you?”

“No, not physically,” he said. “But he broke my heart at the time. Now I don’t give a damn about him, but then I did. I’m so sorry we hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me, son. He did. I’d better go.”

Pressing the phone to his ear as if it was her hand, he said, “I love you, Mum.”

“And I love you. Kiss Angel for me.” She hung up.

He grabbed his diary from its hiding place, sat at the kitchen table, and began to write.

It was at College Grange that I first heard the word bastard directed at me. I had been there a couple of months and was getting ready to go home for the Christmas holidays. All the other boys were picked up by parents, but my mum couldn’t take the time off work to come and get me. She had never had a car and could not drive anyway. She had arranged for a master to take me to the train, and I would travel home alone. It was a wintry December day, and I stood outside with my bag in the freezing cold, waiting for the master to come out.

One of the other boys asked me, “Where’s your parents, Saunders?”

“There’s only my mum, and she couldn’t leave work,” I told him.

That was when an older boy, Chisholm, who should have known better, said, “He’s a bastard.”

Naturally I dropped my bag and went after him, not stopping until his father dove out of the car and dragged me off. The master was there by then, Mr. Bowker. He demanded to know what the hell we were up to. Chisholm said I had attacked him for no reason, but Freddie, my new best friend, was there too and he told the master what had happened. We were both dressed down for fighting, though there was hardly a mark on me and the other boy had a bloody nose and the beginnings of a black eye. His father told Mr. Bowker, “That’s what happens when you let scholarship boys into the school.” He said he wasn’t paying good money for his son to have to deal with the likes of me.

On the way to the station, I was defiant and angry, using swear words that were not allowed at College Grange. “You’ll be up against this sort of thing a lot, you know, Saunders,” Mr. Bowker said. “Don’t let it get you down. You’re a brilliant student. You excel at sports. You just need to be a little friendlier and less angry. Do you see your father?”

I said, “I’ve never seen him, and my mum has never talked about him.”

When we pulled into the train station, he looked at me. Mr. Bowker had a really kind voice. “Whoever your father is, you must have got something from him. Perhaps that’s why you are so bright. Do you think you got that from him?”

I told him I didn’t know and I didn’t care. Then I said, “He must be tall because my mum is really little, and no one else in my family is tall like me.” He told me he would see me after the holidays and if I had any problems I could go and talk to him. I never did talk to him because I was never the type of boy who talked about my problems. But it really helped that he had said that.

Unable to keep still or focus on anything, he changed into black shorts and trainers, pulled on a black hoodie, and went outside to run. Along the river and through the city streets, he ran at a steady pace, looking straight ahead, avoiding people and traffic with care but never stopping for a moment. If a traffic light turned red, he headed along the street until he could cross without halting. He had no plan except to run until his muscles began to ache and the tension in his body and mind eased. An hour later, hardly even sweating in the cool, early February air, he arrived at the Albert Embankment. Babylon on the Thames or Legoland is what those who worked there called it. He’d had no intention of ending up there and stood leaning against the railing, looking down into the river as his heart and pulse rate slowed down.

Sensing he was being watched, he turned to see Conran leaning against a tree. The man walked over, looking Kael up and down with obvious yearning. Kael grinned. “You really fancy me, don’t you,” he said out loud, knowing Conran’s head would do a three sixty.

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about things like that out loud. One of these days, someone will hear.”

Chuckling, Kael felt the burden of the last few days lift somewhat. Like a kid, he still loved making Conran squirm, and the run had helped immeasurably. “Admit it.”

“Yes, I admit it,” Conran said quietly. “I have never wanted another man. Only you. I saw you from the window and came out. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“About walking out on that assignment?”

Conran shook his head. “Thornton did an excellent job. It’s about Shawn Holloway. You went to see him in prison in Liverpool. He’s charged with molesting a child. Who the hell is he?”

Angered, Kael said, “Why am I under surveillance?”

“You know perfectly well you will always be under surveillance. It’s intermittent, but we keep an eye on everyone at your level. As for Holloway, you can’t get involved in things like that. They’re too high profile. The story was reported in the
Liverpool Echo
.”

“The
Echo
is a rag. No one outside Liverpool reads it. Shawn was a boyfriend of my mum. She thought he was innocent and wanted me to make the bail application.”

“Did he do it?”

“Yes. He’s guilty and he’s going to plead guilty. End of.”

Looking relieved, Conran said, “What was that Sir Rodney Black said about mistaking you for Romodanovsky’s son. Is it true?”

Kael looked out at the river. “Yes. He told me I was the image of my father.”

“You do look like him. Both very tall. And you have the same jawline.”

That was exactly what Angel had said. Kael pointed at a bench and walked over to it, fully expecting Conran to follow him, which he did. “Do you want to go inside? It’s freezing,” Conran said.

“No. It’s invigorating.” Kael stretched his bare legs out in front of him and crossed them comfortably at the ankle while Conran pulled his jacket closer and hunched his shoulders. “I turn the heat off at night in the winter, and sometimes I make Angel sleep on the floor with me just to toughen him up.”

“Yes, I believe that.” Conran half smiled.

Knowing he had to face this at some point, Kael came to a decision. “I want to find out where Romodanovsky was in the summer of 1977.”

Conran sat sideways on the bench, looking at him. “You think he might be your father? How can he be?”

“He’s a rapist, and my mother was working in a hotel that summer in Liverpool. She was eighteen years old.”

“I agree you have a look of him, but that’s a long shot. Why not just ask your mother? I know your birth certificate has no father listed, but she must know who he is.”

Sometimes Kael hated that Conran knew everything about him. To work at SIS, he’d had to hand over a copy of his birth certificate that had only his mum’s name on it. Father unknown. “No, I don’t think she does.”

“Ask her.”

“No! I asked her once, and she got very upset.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. There’s very little about him on the Internet, but there must be some information somewhere.”

For the second time in a few weeks, Kael asked Conran a question he would not normally ask anyone. Exposing himself emotionally was a thing he simply never did. Even to himself, he had admitted long ago that his emotions were neither deep nor refined. “You’ve accused me in the past of being evil. Do you believe that?”

A little cough together with Conran moving several inches away from Kael on the bench proved the man’s nervousness. “You threatened to kill my children.”

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you I wouldn’t have done it? You were refusing to cooperate in keeping Angel safe. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not that.” Conran met his gaze. “I’m not sure about evil, but it takes a certain type of individual to kill perfect strangers on command.”

“What about the person who orders them to do it?”

“Me?” Conran shrugged. “People like me are cowardly. We sit behind desks and order people like you to put yourselves in danger. Rather like politicians sending young men and women to war.”

“So you’re the coward and I’m the evil bastard?”

Conran sighed. “It’s for the greater good. Everything we do is for the greater good.”

Crossing him arms over his chest, Kael looked at him. “That old chestnut again? Keep believing it if it makes you feel better.”

“It’s not as if we slaughter people willy-nilly.”

“Could you do what I do?”

“No.”

“Because you’re scared?”

“No, because I do not have it in me to kill unless, perhaps, I was protecting my wife and children, but most people would kill in those circumstances. Why are you questioning yourself? I thought you liked your job.”

That’s what scares me sometimes
. “I do. I love it.” A ferry full of early tourists caught Kael’s attention. The tour guide would be pointing out the building as the headquarters of MI6, and references to James Bond would be made. “I feel immense satisfaction at a kill well done.”

“I’ve never come across another operative who uses a scalpel as their weapon of choice. Even the most hardened like a little distance between themselves and their targets. And they never have sex with the man first.”

“I don’t do that anymore, not now I’ve got Angel. It would be disloyal. He’s my sweetheart.” Thinking of Angel always made him smile. “I need to kill someone. It’s been too long. I need a fix.”

“Saunders.” He waited until Kael met his gaze.

“What?”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not joking. I never joke about things like that. I mean it. Give me a job.”

“I can’t conjure up a target just because you have a bloodlust on you. For God’s sake, man. You make me very nervous when you say things like that. I know you killed Graham Clement in Bangkok last year.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The pedophile had deserved a bullet in the forehead, and anyway Kael had used it as a training exercise and allowed Angel to kill the pervert.

“No one cried any tears when his body showed up in a river,” Conran said. “But still. I know it was you.”

“In a river?” Kael looked at him. They had left the man in a back passage at a brothel that sold children to foreign sex tourists.

“He was probably dumped there after you shot him so as not to bring attention to others in the child sex trade.” Placing a hand on Kael’s shoulder, Conran said, “Don’t look too closely at yourself. It will throw you off your game.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Without saying good-bye and without looking back, Kael rose and began to run home.

* * * *

The cheese cannelloni was delicious. Angel had made a big salad to serve with it, and when Kael finally sat on the couch with his glass of whisky, he was sufficiently distracted from thoughts about Romodanovsky to actually pay attention to his boy.